Chapter 70: Empty Threats
Chapter 70: Empty Threats
The pulvinar was emptying. The senators and nobles who had watched the semifinal bout with bated breath were now rising from their cushioned seats, their conversations a low, buzzing murmur that filled the marble chamber like the hum of insects.
Slaves moved between the rows, gathering abandoned wine cups and half-eaten trays of figs.
The crocodiles were still circling in the dark water below, their hunger temporarily sated by the Syrian’s body, but the platform was empty now. The blood would be scrubbed away before morning. The stage would be reset, and the finals would begin on fresh wood.
Ignatius was already on his feet. His heart was still hammering against his ribs, not from the excitement of the fight, but from the cold, sinking dread that had settled in his stomach the moment the Numidian licked his blade clean.
"Poison." He muttered.
The dagger had been coated with poison. The Syrian never had a chance. And Alex, in his cell, had no idea what kind of man he was about to face.
He turned to the seat beside him. Empty. Gaius was gone. The old medic had slipped away at some point during the bout, and Ignatius hadn’t noticed. He scanned the pulvinar, searching for the familiar leather bag, the grey hair, the perpetually unimpressed expression. Nothing.
"Where’s Gaius?" he asked.
Oseka looked up. He was still standing near the railing, his arms folded, his jaw tight. He had watched the Syrian die with the same expression he’d worn when Alex fell into the Pool of Death. The numbness of a man who had seen too much and was still seeing more.
"I– I don’t know. He left a while ago. Didn’t say where."
Ignatius muttered a curse under his breath. "Forget it. You—stay here. Keep your eyes open."
Oseka nodded. Ignatius was already moving, his sandals clicking against the marble as he strode toward the exit. Two of his guards fell into step behind him, their armor clanking, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
The corridors of the arena were crowded with bodies—senators, merchants, wealthy women in silk stolas, all of them buzzing with the aftermath of the bout. Ignatius pushed through them without apology.
They descended the stone steps, leaving the light and noise of the pulvinar behind, trading it for the cold, damp silence of the lower corridors.
The holding area was ahead, its iron doors flanked by a legion of guards, more than usual.
They stood in formation, their spears crossed, their faces hard as the stone around them.
Ignatius didn’t slow down. "I need to see my fighter. Albius. The Ghost."
The lead guard didn’t move. "No visitors. By order of the governor."
"I am his lanista. I have the right—"
"No one sees the fighters until after the finals. Those are the new rules." The guard’s voice was flat, rehearsed, the voice of a man who had been given an order and had no intention of questioning it. "Turn back."
Ignatius stepped closer. His voice dropped, cold and sharp as a blade. "Do you know who I am? Do you know what I could do to you with a single letter to the Senate? I will not be denied access to my own champion."
The guards didn’t flinch. The lead guard’s expression didn’t change. "Turn back, Lanista. Or we will remove you."
Ignatius’s jaw tightened. His hand curled into a fist at his side. He was a man of influence, of power, of carefully cultivated authority—and in this moment, standing before a wall of spears and stone-faced soldiers, he was absolutely powerless. The realization burned in his chest like bile.
The iron doors groaned open behind them. Footsteps echoed in the corridor. The Numidian emerged, escorted by four guards, his scarred chest still streaked with dried blood.
He walked with the slow, unhurried gait of a man who had just proven something to the world and was in no rush to prove anything else.
As he passed Ignatius, he stopped. Just for a moment. Just long enough to turn his head and meet the Lanista’s eyes, and a crooked grin stretched across his face. His smile was a thin, knowing thing.
Then he walked through the iron doors of the holding area, and the guards closed them behind him with a resonant clang.
Ignatius stood frozen. His teeth were clenched so hard his jaw ached. His guards exchanged uneasy glances behind him. The lead guard watched him with the patient indifference of a man who had been threatened by better men than this and was still standing.
"I’ll have your heads," Ignatius said. His voice was low and trembling with barely-contained fury. "All of you."
He turned and stormed back up the corridor, his sandals slapping against the stone, his guards scrambling to keep pace.
The threat was empty. He knew it. The guards knew it. And somewhere in the governor’s villa, Ignatius thoughtAurellia Magna was probably smiling that same thin, knowing smile.
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Inside the holding area, the iron doors groaned shut, and the sound of the guards’ sandals echoed within the corridors.
Alex was sitting on his straw bed, his back against the cold stone, his eyes fixed on the empty cell across the corridor.
He heard the footsteps before he saw the Numidian—the slow, measured tread of a man who had just survived a fight and was in no hurry to rest.
"I guess the bout is finally over," Alex muttered to himself. "Took them a while."
The Numidian was led past the other cells and stopped directly across from Alex. The guards unlocked the gate, the Gaul’s old gate, and the Numidian stepped inside. The gate swung shut, and the bolt slid home.
The Numidian stood at the bars for a long moment, looking at Alex. His scarred chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths. His bandaged hands dangled on the bars, the white linen already stained with spots of red. His missing ear was a gnarled knot of flesh, his nose a monument to old violence, his eyes dark and unreadable.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t make the throat-slitting gesture. He didn’t promise to break Alex or snap him in half or feed him to the crocodiles. He just stared. And then, slowly, deliberately, he turned his back, lay down on the straw bed, and closed his eyes.
Alex watched him for a moment longer. The silence stretched.
Somewhere above, the crowd was still dispersing, their voices a distant, muffled thunder.
Somewhere in the upper tier, Gaius was in his room with a hole in his memory where the truth used to be. And Ignatius was storming up a corridor with empty threats and a sinking heart.
But down here, in the cold and the dark, there was only Alex and the Numidian. Two men in cages, waiting for the final fight.
Alex stared at the ceiling. His opponent was across the corridor. His enemy was silent. And the Ghost was ready.